Quartermaster: The Emperor's Peace
by Cynicide
Summary: Quartermaster 707-066-482 has to weigh his duty to the Emperor and the Death Korps of Krieg against his family.
1. Chapter 1

Quartermaster: The Emperor's Peace

++ The Emperor's Peace be with you, now and forever. May you kneel before the Golden Throne, and be judged as He deems worthy. ++

* * *

Dirt showered the prone form of Quartermaster 707-066-482, known informally as Dörfer. He had faint memories of other Kriegsmen calling him by his name, most notably a ruthless drill instructor. He had yelled at 707-066-482 on many an occasion during training. The Quartermaster smiled grimly as he remembered what had become of this particular instructor turned Watchmaster. After a vicious encounter with a Tyranid brood, 707-066-482 had found him lying in the mud and blood of the battlefield, his right arm lying dismembered a metre away. He had received the Emperor's Peace, yes, but 707-066-482 had shot him in the stump of his arm first, so he had gone to the Golden Throne howling in agony.

More dirt fell into the Quartermaster's dugout as bombs rained from the sky. 707-066-482 swung himself off his mattress, pushed back the grimy flap that separated the dugout from the trench and stepped outside into the chaos of the world. Death Korps snipers stood on firing steps, shooting lasguns into the distant enemy. Platoons jogged past the Quartermaster on their way to form up and begin the march across the scarred, cratered, churned up bog of no-man's-land. Artillery fired shells out over the heads of the guardsmen and in the distance the _crump_ of the deadly missiles hitting their targets could be heard.

707-066-482 stood in front of the mouth of his dugout, surveying the soon-to-be battlefield. It was foggy, the bloated red sun of the world appearing watery in the grey light of dawn. It had rained again during the night, and subsequently the trench in which 707-066-482 was standing had two inches of muddy water gently lapping in the bottom. It sloshed around the Quartermaster's feet as he began to walk along the maze of trenches that was the Imperial defence.

* * *

In the blown-out ruins of a once proud Imperial Guard fortress, a Grot was screeching. This was a normal occurrence within Ork society, but the reason behind this specific Gretchin's outburst was the fact that he had been clamped into one of the crude "Grot Bombs" that the Orks were so fond of using to weaken an enemy. The Grot had been making a noise for around five minutes, and it was driving everyone else crazy, especially the Ork who was chauffeuring the bomb closer to where it would be launched.

A Mek stood next to a large hole in the wall of the fortress, made during the initial Ork bombardment of the bastion, relieving it of the unfortunate Mordian Iron Guard regiment that had, until recently, occupied it. He grinned smugly as he directed the Orks and the unfortunate Grots to line up and aim the bombs. With a flick of his wrist, the Orks launched the Grot Bombs through the gaping wound in the stronghold and out over the no-man's-land towards the Death Korps trenches. Some exploded against the wall due to the Orks' miscalculations, but for the most part the bombs flew through the gap, including the one piloted by the hysterical Grot.

The Grot was still screaming as he was flung through the air in his ramshackle explosive. It shook and juddered underneath the terrified pilot, and along the side a few of the metal plates that had been welded on with less skill snapped off and flew back behind the flying bomb. It was when he could make out the shapes of individual guardsmen that the Grot remembered that he was supposed to fly the bomb to where it would inflict the maximum amount of chaos. As the pilot frantically looked for a target amongst the lasgun fire being directed at him, his wide eyes spotted one of the many temporary tank bridges that had been laid across the trenches. Doomed as he was, the Grot was determined to go down in a heroic way. He resolved to aim for the bridge, squeezing his eyes tight shut as he plummeted towards the Imperial line.

* * *

707-066-482 was deep in thought, yet it was impossible to know what was going on behind his grim skull gas mask. The Quartermaster was so pensive that he didn't notice the Grot Bomb as it hurtled towards the guardsmen's positions. As 707-066-482 strode underneath one of the many wooden tank bridges that were laid over the top of the trenches, he was tackled to the ground. Outraged at the audacity of the Guardsman that had so roughly thrown him to the mud, 707-066-482 began to turn around, then was blasted by a wave of heat. Next to him, the smouldering remains of the tank bridge lay, splintered and burning. Pieces of metal were being flung everywhere, crude, scratched chunks littering the trench.

The Quartermaster's anger subsided as he begrudgingly thanked the junior soldier who had saved him. Through the Guardsman's gas mask he could see deep, brown eyes. 707-066-482 remembered that his son had had brown eyes, nearly exactly the same. The Quartermaster wondered what had become of his son. He had been called Hauser, but did that even matter anymore? Surely he was old enough to be fighting?

"Hauser?" 707-066-482 asked.

The Guardsman standing in front of the Quartermaster flinched, as if he had seen a ghost. "Father?" he asked.

"I was not aware you were with the 707th-" began 707-066-482.

"I am Guardsman 707-098-501 of the 707th Death Korps of Krieg Siege Regiment," said Hauser. "I am no longer your son. You are no longer my father. We are comrades, sworn to do the duty of the Emperor and see that no enemy threatens the Imperium of Man. We are soldiers of the Death Korps of Krieg, and we shall fight until the enemy is destroyed, or we are all lying dead upon the battlefield."

The Quartermaster was surprised at the sudden change of the soldier standing in front of him. He shook his head, thanked 707-098-501 again, brushed the worst of the mud off his greatcoat and continued on his way. Far off, he heard a deep, guttural cry, which was quickly picked up by the rest of the enemy until it rose to such a crescendo that it seemed to be inside 707-066-482's head. The sound chilled the Quartermaster's blood and he quickened his pace.

"WAAAAAAAAAAGH!"


	2. Chapter 2

Guardsman 707-098-501 was on watch duty, as he had been for the past six hours. Again, he looked through the periscope at the seemingly endless expanse of no-man's-land. As he had expected, nothing moved in the pitted wasteland that had been churned up by the months of warfare. Corpses of both man and Ork lay in various stages of decomposition, some alarmingly close to the Imperial trenches. However, Guardsman 707-098-501 was not at all fazed by the Ork raids that had happened almost every night when the Death Korps had first made planetfall. Over the course of the war, the greenskins had soon come to realise that the Death Korps of Krieg could not easily be made to move from their positions. By now, the attacks happened around once a month, but more and more Orks seemed to charge across the mud to the trenches. At one point, the greenskins had utterly destroyed the front line troops, and desperate struggles had erupted in the Imperial defences as the Guardsmen fought for their lives. The trenches had eventually been recaptured, but at a terrible cost. Around one tenth of the Death Korps of Krieg 707th Siege Regiment lay dead or dying.

Guardsman 707-098-501 winced as the pain from his wound flared up again. During the battle for the trenches, an Ork had rushed at him with a choppa. He had automatically raised his arm to protect himself, and had lost the little and ring fingers on his left hand. At first he had tried to disguise his injury, but before long the pain had become unbearable. He had ripped a corner off a dead soldier's coat and used it as a bandage. It was grimy and unhygienic, but in the hellish world of the Imperial trenches, it was the best that could be offered.

A tap on his shoulder disrupted his thoughts. He turned to see the watch replacement standing before him. Behind the soldier, the red sun of the world hung low in the fog. Guardsman 707-098-501 stepped down from the periscope and began to walk towards his dugout, past Death Korps snipers and platoons preparing for the inevitable slog across no-man's-land. There had been a rumour going around that High Command had decided to end the battle of attrition and a final charge was being ordered. The whole regiment would charge the Ork fortress, regardless of the lives lost. If the greenskins prevailed, the Imperium would have no choice but to unleash an Exterminatus upon the world, which was undesirable seeing as it was a useful mining facility. Then, a couple of nights ago, the Captain of the Death Korps had announced that the rumours were indeed true. The Imperial Guardsmen would attack the fortress within the week, determining the outcome of the war and the fate of the planet.

As 707-098-501 walked through the mud of the trenches, he could read the faces of those he passed. When you live most of your life with a gun in your hands and an enemy on your doorstep, you quickly learn how those experiencing the same as you feel. 707-098-501 saw one emotion. Fear. Not fear of death, as the Death Korps accept, even embrace, death. To die is to kneel before the Emperor, and know that your life has been successful. No, what 707-098-501 saw was fear of failure. Of being the loose bolt that causes the machine of the Imperium of Man to malfunction. 707-098-501 had experienced failure once and had resolved to never waver in his duty to the Emperor again.

707-098-501's dugout was on the front line. Its previous occupant lay somewhere in the grime of the battlefield, just another rotting carcass. The Guardsman wondered whether he had been killed outright by an Ork or had lain in the filth of no-man's-land, waiting silently for one of the dreaded Quartermasters to stumble across his near-death state and administer the Emperor's Peace. It was, thought 707-098-501, one of the worst ways to die in the Death Korps. Although others did not share his view, the Guardsman held that to be killed by another servant of the Imperium was cowardly and shameful, even slightly heretical.

707-098-501's deliberations were interrupted as he rounded another corner in the trench and nearly collided with another squad of Death Korps troopers jogging to their positions for the ultimate assault. 707-098-501 knew that it would soon be his platoon forming up, preparing for the all-or-nothing charge. In but a few short hours, the war would be over, whether in Imperial favour or not. 707-098-501 muttered a fervent prayer to the Emperor, requesting a victory for the Death Korps of Krieg. He had a feeling that he wasn't the only one who had found themselves praying over the course of the past two years.

Without warning, the world began to shake. Large explosives pelted out of the sky, screaming down towards the trenches. 707-098-501 broke into a run as the shells slammed into the dirt, showering the Death Korps soldiers with mud and metal. Fires had broken out all along the trenches, despite the damp conditions. 707-098-501 cursed the Orks and their fluky technology as he darted through the Imperial defences. He ducked as a bomb exploded in the trench parallel to the one he was currently dashing through. Bits of dismembered soldiers flew through the chaos of the bombardment as the Guardsman continued towards his dugout. To his left and right, Death Korps troopers lay slumped over mounds of dirt and shards of metal. They all had one thing in common; they were all dead. 707-098-501 ran past Guardsmen who had lost arms and legs, or were bleeding profusely from underneath their greatcoats. The Guardsman felt like the last man on the planet as he finally reached his dugout and jumped into it, lying panting on the ground as the salvo carried on tearing up the trenches.

* * *

It felt like an eternity until the Orks finally relented with the shelling. The trenches seemed eerily quiet without the constant whine and _crump _of the bombs landing on the Imperial lines. 707-098-501 stepped out of the dugout and surveyed the carnage. The trenches were demolished; each one spilled its walls into another, so that the layout the Guardsman had come to know was no more. As 707-098-501 looked at the dismal landscape, he heard a shrill whistle blast. A chill feeling overcame the Guardsman as he picked up his lasgun and headed towards where the noise had come from. In the Death Korps of Krieg, a single whistle meant one thing; form ranks.

After five minutes of trekking through the mess of the trenches, 707-098-501 came to a section of the Imperial positions that had survived the barrage. Glad to see that not all of the Death Korps defences had been completely annihilated, 707-098-501 strode off the mound of dirt he had scrambled over and down into the trench. Wooden tank bridges crossed the trenches, casting shadows over 707-098-501 as he walked underneath them. As he continued away from the devastation, the Guardsman found the Imperial lines were more heavily populated than those that had received the onslaught earlier, as one would expect. 707-098-501 walked past soldiers standing in groups of twos and threes, whispering nervously or praying to the Emperor. 707-098-501 strode under another tank bridge and standing in front of him, clearly wrapped up in his own thoughts, stood one of the despised Quartermasters. The Guardsman slowed his pace so as not to have to be seen by the skull-masked executioner. As he reduced his speed, something flashed in the sky. 707-098-501 looked up and, to his horror, immediately identified a Grot bomb. There were many more hurtling through the fog towards the trenches, but the one that had caught the Guardsman's eye was speeding straight towards a tank bridge. The Quartermaster, unaware of his impending doom, was still heading towards the wooden overpass. Without thinking of the consequences, 707-098-501 put on a burst of speed and tackled the Quartermaster to the ground. The senior officer turned to face the Guardsman, and was blasted by a wave of heat as the Grot bomb smashed into the bridge, spewing charred splinters and hot metal all over the trench.

The Quartermaster stood up and faced 707-098-501. Through his gas mask, the Guardsman could see nothing behind the grim skull visage, but he felt as though the Quartermaster was staring into his soul, probing his mind like a psyker.

"Hauser?"

The name came from nowhere. 707-098-501 tensed up.

"Father?" asked 707-098-501.

"I had no idea you were with the 707th-" began the Quartermaster.

707-098-501 was overwhelmed by this information. His father was with the 707th as well. His father was a Quartermaster.

"I am Guardsman 707-098-501 of the 707th Death Korps of Krieg Siege Regiment," said 707-098-501. "I am no longer your son. You are no longer my father. We are comrades, sworn to do the duty of the Emperor and see that no enemy threatens the Imperium of Man. We are soldiers of the Death Korps of Krieg, and we shall fight until the enemy is destroyed, or we are all lying dead upon the battlefield."

The Quartermaster shook his head, thanked 707-098-501 again, brushed the worst of the mud off his greatcoat and continued on his way, leaving the Guardsman standing in the middle of the trench. He was still absorbing all the material he had just learned. His train of thought was abruptly interrupted by a shout which he had grown used to over the course of the past two years. Needless to say, it still made him apprehensive when he heard it.

"WAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

The cry of the Orks grew steadily louder as 707-098-501 began to pace towards the furthermost front trench, where he knew that his battalion would be forming up, ready for the offensive on the Ork fortress. The Guardsman wondered if he would make it across no-man's-land to the greenskin bastion. He prayed that he would, rather than rotting slowly in the grime of the battlefield. He was still praying as he reached the 098th battalion's designated zone. 707-098-501 stood idly, head still reeling from the fact that his father was with the 707th. Again, his considerations were disturbed by another piercingly loud noise. This time wasn't a shout though. This time it was two whistle blasts. As the noise of the first whistle went into a decrescendo, others took up where it had left off, so that soon the Imperial defences were echoing the harsh note of whistles.

As one, the Death Korps of Krieg 707th Siege Regiment silently clambered out of the trenches, and began advancing through the fog into no-man's-land. Shoota fire whizzed past 707-098-501 as he continued through the mud. To his left and right, bodies spiralled down towards the ground; their final resting places. The Guardsman levelled his own lasgun to his shoulder and started to shoot at the vague shapes in the miasma. He was unrelenting in his march across the theatre of war, slowly advancing on the Ork fortification that loomed out of the haze, casting its black shadow over the combat zone.

707-098-501 had been expecting the Orks to charge, but it still came as a surprise when he saw the first greenskin running at him out of the smog. He aimed his lasgun between its eyes and squeezed the trigger. The beam of light exploded against the Ork's forehead and it fell to the earth, face down in the filth. 707-098-501 felt a brief satisfaction at the xenos' death before swinging his lasgun towards the tide of Orks that was sweeping towards him and firing into the shades in the fog. But the greenskins were still advancing towards him; no matter how many he killed, more always seemed to take their place. 707-098-501 felt an incredulous sense of despair, replaced quickly by anger. If he was going to die, he would take down as many enemies of the Imperium as he could. The fog had thickened, and 707-098-501 couldn't see any other Death Korps soldiers close to him. But he stood his ground, lasgun ready, and prepared himself for the beginning of the end.


End file.
